


forth and back

by clarinetta



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Death, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:51:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8606179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarinetta/pseuds/clarinetta
Summary: Glimpses of John and Paul's relationship throughout the seventies, via their songs to each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this beautiful and challenging prompt from @single-pigeon on tumblr: "John’s mindsets as he writes his songs about Paul, like HDYS and I Know (I Know) and Now And Then, or even Paul’s mindsets as he goes through like, Too Many People and Dear Friend and Here Today."
> 
> Originally posted on my blog, @pickledbeatles.

_**1a) Too Many People** _

One morning, in early December of 1969, Paul woke up angry. No, that wasn’t the right word. He woke up _furious_ , incensed, his entire body shivering with barely contained rage. Lying in bed, shaking, watching the thick Scottish snow blanket the farm, a jaunty little tune began to take shape inside his head, each note fueled by his wrath. He felt incandescent, lit up from within.

The force of his temper frightened him a little, but it was infinitely better than waking up as he had been for the past few months - hungover or still drunk, perpetually drowning in loneliness and exhaustion and guilt. He would get up long enough to find himself another bottle of whiskey, stay awake long enough to eat whatever Linda could force into him, and go back to bed with his drink, staring dully at the tv as he determinedly downed the whole bottle.

He hadn’t showered properly in weeks; today, he turned the faucet toward cold and gasped under the needling spray for as long as he could stand it. His hair had devolved into a tangled greasy mess; today, he combed out the rat’s nest, shaved his overgrown beard. Pajamas had been the name of the clothing game; today, he slipped on jeans and a clean, warm sweater. All through his morning routine, that tune continued to develop. As his rage cooled and solidified into something smooth and ice-cold, the tune became more and more clear, and with it came the words.

“That was your last mistake,” he sang to himself in a thin, reedy falsetto, smiling coldly as he made Linda’s coffee. He felt strong arms wrap around his waist and the lovely, earthy scent of his wife reached his nose. He closed his eyes.

“I find my love awake and waiting for me.”

_**1b) How Do You Sleep?** _

_That fucking cunt._

John played the song over and over, replacing the needle every time the music began to fade, until he had memorized every dip and lilt of Paul’s taunting voice.

_Fuck you, Macca._

He listened for hours. The song carved its grooves into his mind. Eventually, he barely heard the music at all, but his hand kept reaching out to repeat, repeat, repeat. Yoko walked into the room and listened with him; at some point after that, she walked out again. John barely noticed.

_Now what can be done for you?_  
_She’s waiting for–_

Paul’s voice shattered into a thousand pieces as John brought his closed fist down hard on the record. It snapped violently, a few pieces flying a short distance across the room. Breathing evenly, John stared at the pieces, reveling in momentary silence. For a brief second he felt an overwhelming urge to gather the pieces up lovingly and glue them back together.

At that moment, Yoko appeared in the doorway, looking fierce and sharp. John glanced up at her. She raised one eyebrow, as if to say, _What are you going to do about it?_

He stood then, leaving the pieces of Paul’s record scattered about the floor. He grabbed Yoko’s hand and led her to the music room.

They had a response to compose.

_**2a) Dear Friend** _

Paul didn’t like to think of himself as someone who got writer’s block, but he had to admit, this time he had nothing. His mind had gone totally blank. He came to the music room with a pen and some paper and an idea about a dissonant minor chord, but since sitting down, he’d lost the chord and was left with just the pen and paper.

He whirled himself around the piano bench just for a laugh, legs lifted high, and giggled, a soft, innocent sound. He and John used to amuse themselves like this when they were stuck, or high, or too tired to function properly. They would spin on the bench or Paul’s office chair with the wheels until they were dizzy and breathless with laughter. It used to be so easy to laugh with John.

The thought stole the smile from Paul’s face, and he settled back to the keys. This time, something caught his eye: the corner of a photograph poking out over the edge of the the top shelf, facedown. Paul frowned and picked it up. When he turned it over, his breath caught. Instantly, he recognized it: John buried up to his nose in a floral comforter, fast asleep on their first Paris trip. Running his fingers over the blurry image of John’s face, Paul let a wave of love and sadness wash over him.

He hated fighting. Hated it. Half the time he couldn’t even remember what they were fighting about, especially since everything had dissolved into insults and hurled personal accusations. Paul felt compelled to keep up with John, as he always had, upping the ante, returning jab for jab, but he felt emptied out, looking at John sleeping, remembering how soft he could be.

 _Dear Johnny,_ he thought to himself. _I want to stop this. It can’t mean that much to you. I’m so tired, Johnny._

He reached for the piano keys and hit a chord. C, E flat, G. Reaching for his pen, the words began to flow.

_**2b) I Know** _

The Los Angeles sun seemed to want John Lennon dead, from the way it seared into his skin and blinded his eyes as he walked outside. He made a noise of disgust and exhaustion and walked back into the shade that the house created, up against the outside wall. He crouched against the warm brick, head in his hands, and thought about how much he hated drinking and drugs and everything else about LA as well, while he was at it. His hangover screamed at him, even as he shielded his face from the burning sun, and he missed Paul.

That thought was never far from his mind. He went for a swim with Harry and May, and he missed Paul. He wrote letters to his cousins and called Auntie Mimi every week, and he missed Paul. He recorded (or tried to record) his shitty music in a shitty LA studio with a shitty producer, and he missed Paul so much it felt like a knife twisting in his heart.

John knew he’d hurt Paul. He’d done it intentionally, maliciously, in a terrible rage. Of course Paul would never show how deeply the wound had gone, but they’d met up last year to try and call a truce and it was there, on his face, if you knew where to look for it, and John did. It was in the newly formed lines on his forehead, the shadowy circles under his eyes. It was in the way he could only look John in the eye for a few seconds before he had to look away.

It occurred to him, now, that he had never apologized.

He stood suddenly, sending himself reeling with vertigo, and crashed into the brick wall behind him. He paid it no mind and walked determinedly back inside. The song was writing itself in his head, and he had to get it down before it disappeared, before he changed his mind and decided he was being too soft.

_**3a) Now and Then** _

“H’lo.”

“Paul?”

“Wha. Who’s this.”

“Paul, it’s me.”

John heard Paul inhale deeply through his nose, trying to wake up a little. “John?” he said.

“Your one and only,” John said.

“What’s - it’s 3:30 in the mor - wait, are you crying?”

“Don’t rub it in,” John said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

There was a short silence on Paul’s end; then, sounding fully awake now, he said, “Hold on. I’m picking up from the kitchen phone.” John swiped at steadily falling tears and waited.

“Okay, I’m here,” Paul said finally.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“D’you miss me?”

Paul huffed out a sound that was almost a laugh. “John, luv, I’m barely awake.”

“Do you miss me though?” John insisted.

Paul went silent for a moment. “What’s this about, Johnny?” he said softly, and the tenderness in his voice, the sound of his old nickname, pulled a sob from John’s throat. “What’s wrong?”

John dragged in a shaky breath. “Dunno,” he said. “Yoko’s off on business. Sean is being a terror. I haven’t been outside in weeks and I haven’t written anything since ‘75 and I have everything I wanted and it’s still all shit.” He turned his head and looked blurrily around the music room where he sat on the floor, surrounded by untouched instruments.

“No, it’s not,” Paul said patiently. “Yoko loves you. Sean loves you. It’s going to be fine.”

“What do you know about anything?” John growled, but his voice cracked at the end, taking all the bite out of his words. Paul just sighed. They sat in silence, just a breath and three thousand miles between them.

“You didn’t answer my question,” John said after a time. “Do you miss me?”

Paul exhaled, and John thought he caught a hint of tears in that breath now, too. “Don’t you know me at all?” Paul half-whispered. “Of course I do.” There was a pause, long and hesitant, and then Paul asked, “Do you…miss me?”

John smiled, closing his eyes. “Now and then.”

_**3b) Here Today** _

Paul shut the door to the studio a little harder than he meant to, but it didn’t matter; he was fleeing, and he couldn’t go back in and apologize. He wasn’t sure he could ever face Carl again, or anyone. His throat hurt terribly; his eyes burned and streamed with unwanted tears as he stumbled down the back steps, out onto the patio. He crouched on the ground by the flowerbed, his head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped around his midsection.

 _Now and then._ How could Carl have known?

Something was building in Paul’s chest. A void was opening, some horrible thing that he had refused to look at before; Carl’s song had forced it open and now he was reeling, helpless before the power of his grief.

John was gone, and he was never coming back.

The thing that had been building in Paul’s chest for months had reached his throat, demanding to be let out. Finally, Paul succumbed to it. He pressed one hand over his mouth and _wailed_ , a terrible lost sound, rocking himself back and forth. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything but the broken sounds coming from his own lips.

He had no idea how long he sat there crying and rocking, his mind a blank; but eventually, the pain eased infinitesimally, and he could begin to think again. The first thought that came to his head had no words; it was just a guitar chord, longing and melancholy, wrapped in love.

As soon as he could stand, he wiped his face and headed back inside, already writing the lyrics to accompany the chord.


End file.
